


A Life Worth Living

by flitterflutterfly



Category: Die Hard (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flitterflutterfly/pseuds/flitterflutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Days in the lives of John McClane and Matthew Farrell: their ups and downs and everything in-between.</p><p>Each chapter is its own complete snippet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters all have individual summaries to give you an idea where they fit, chronologically.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly a year after the events of the Fire Sale, John hears on knock on his apartment door. When he opens it, it’s to the drunken form of the kid he’d left behind in the hospital more than three hundred and thirty days before.

John ran a hand over his head, his lack of hair a reminder of his age. The game in front of him was only of passing interest and yet still he nursed his beer almost lazily. His life had taught him a couple things and one of those lessons was to always appreciate a day off.

Outside, more fireworks pestered the sky, but John ignored those. He didn’t like to think about this holiday, just as he wasn’t very fond of Christmas. He blamed terrorists for messing up his good cheer.

Not that he’d ever had much in the first place.

A year ago, the entire country that now celebrated its independence day nearly collapsed. It would have collapsed, if not for Matthew Farrell.

Most would say John McClane was the hero of the Fire Sale, but he knew better. He never would have survived if it hadn’t been for his slinky hacker companion with his all too bright eyes and dark hair that just seemed to scream at John to grasp and hold on.

Instead, he’d left the kid in the hospital as soon as he was recovered enough to badger his nurse into releasing him.

Sometimes, John wondered if Lucy had kept up with Matt, but he never could bring up the courage to ask. Say whatever you like about John, but there were things he was scared of and his daughter was one of them. She took too much after her mother, in that regard.

John sighed, draining the last of the beer. He could admit to himself, in his empty living room watching a game replay on his screen while fireworks danced outside his window… here he could admit to himself that he missed Matt, that he wanted the kid by his side.

And not in the parental way he would be forced to endure should Matt and his daughter begin dating.

John groaned, standing from the couch to drop the beer bottle into the recycling bin (his daughter’s first addition to this apartment John called home). Just as the bottle clunked with the others in the bin, the doorbell rang.

John paused, thinking he might have misheard, but, no, there it went again. Wondering who would be knocking on his door so late on the Fourth of July, or rather early into the fifth, John quickly moved to the entrance.

On the other side of his door slouched Matt, hunched over almost miserably on himself as he leaned against the wall, one finger still pressing the bell button.

“Matt,” John said, surprised, and then cleared his throat. “Farrell. What are you doing here?”

Matt jerked at the first sign of John’s voice, wide eyes coming to enclose on the cop. “John!” he nearly cried, lurching forward.

John caught him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him inside, closing the door firmly behind him. Matt went limp against him, almost curling up on himself. His breath was hot against John’s neck and smelled slightly rancid.

“How much have you had to drink, kid?” John griped, half-walking, half-dragging Matt to his couch where he dumped him unceremoniously.

Matt whined as soon as John let go, reaching back towards him. John caught his hand and put it back against Matt’s chest. “Stay,” he commanded.

Matt did as John walked to the kitchen and got a large glass of water and some crackers. He made his way to the couch to find Matt’s dark eyes tracing his movements, slightly hazy with dilated pupils. “That for me?” he asked, slurring slightly.

“Yeah,” John handed the glass over, watching as half of it was drained immediately. The crackers came next and they were consumed slower, but still consumed so John was relieved.

“S- sit?” Matt asked, patting the couch besides him awkwardly.

John sat, trying not to react as Matt immediately tucked himself against his side, his head lolling back onto John’s shoulder. “You not gonna puke all over me, are you, kid?”

“’m not a kid,” Matt protested. “Old enough.”

“Yeah,” John cleared his throat, unsure of the direction the night had taken. Fireworks continued to sound outside his window, and still Matt sat here completely relaxed against him. Trusting in the apartment of the man who’d abandoned him to cold-handed nurses.

“Missed you,” Matt said softly, so softly John almost didn’t hear it. “Wanted to call you.”

“How’d you know where my apartment is?” John asked curiously. He knew better than most that alcohol could be the best truth serum. He wondered if Matt would even remember this come morning.

“Bowman,” Matt said. His head twisted, coming off John’s shoulder so he could meet John’s eyes. “Why’d you leave me?”

John chuckled, not at all amused. “Didn’t really have a choice, kid.”

“Always have a choice,” Matt said, almost philosophically. “John.”

John turned his eyes so that he faced Matt fully. There was a heat in Matt’s eyes, a heat he recognized though he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Still, it didn’t prepare him for his reaction when Matt closed the distance and landed a kiss on his lips.

Grabbing the back of Matt’s head, John pulled him away gently. Matt’s face looked shattered, broken in a way John knew too well from years of looking in the mirror.

“Oh, Mattie,” John murmured. “In the morning, let’s talk, okay?”

“I lo- I like you a lot,” Matt said, as if John wouldn’t believe him. “I want you, I want you. Please, want you.”

He was growing almost hysterical, and so John dragged him closer until Matt was practically in his lap. Matt clung to him, shaking with each bang of the fireworks lighting the window screen.

“I’m not someone you should want,” John told him.

Matt shook his head, silent now and wide-eyed. “Want you.”

“I believe you,” John said. “But we should talk in the morning. When you’re sober.”

Matt sniffed, not looking happy, but he didn’t protest when John prodded them both up, supporting Matt as he took him to the bathroom to wash up and them stripped him of everything but his boxer shorts.

He thought perhaps it wasn’t right of him, tucking Matt into his own bed without any consent except a drunken confession, but he’d lived too much to care what society morals thought of two grown men sleeping in the same bed.

Matt latched onto him the minute John returned from the bathroom, teeth brushed and down to his own boxers. “Where d’you go?” he whined.

John shushed him gently, sliding under the covers. He meant to sleep on his back, to give Matt a little room, but Matt had practically flung himself on John’s chest and John gave in. With a sort of internal guilt left over from the years he’d grown up, John wrapped his arm around Matt’s shoulder and pulled him just a bit closer.

Matt sighed happily, curling with one leg slung over John’s knee. He very quickly fell into a deep, drunken sleep.

John found he wasn’t tired. It had been too long since he’d shared a bed and, regardless, he found that having Matt in his arms for really what amounted to the first time wasn’t something he wanted to miss.

Matt was too important, meant too much. And that was why John had run like a coward from the kid who’d taken a bullet in the knee to give John just a little bit longer to come to the rescue.

He wondered what it meant that Matt had more faith in him then his own daughter.

“Ah, Mattie,” John murmured into the darkness, the words drowned out by another large crack of fireworks. Matt whimpered in his sleep.

John understood that. It had taken him too many years to be able to distinguish the sounds of fireworks from gunshots. Even now, he would jerk at the unexpected noise, too wary even in his own apartment.

He wondered what the morning would bring. A part of him dared to hope that this would be the start of something new. Something bright.

Matt shifted, his hand coming to curl around John’s. His sleeping face turned up towards John and John smiled at it, his eyes growing heavy.

The morning would come and they would figure things out, untangle the mess that was their lives and maybe tangle them anew. But for now, John drifted into sleep to the sound of fireworks and the feeling of Matt’s body pressed against his own.


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after he’d stumbled drunk into McClane’s apartment, Matt wakes in John’s bed with a raging headache and vague memories of confessing his feelings for the older man.

The sunlight pierced through Matt’s eyelids, white rays of pain as he registered the pounding of his head in time with the faint noises of New York City morning. He groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes in an attempt to help his head, but the movement did very little except make him nauseous.

Fuck, he thought. He knew better than to drink so much that he was this hung-over the morning after. The last time he had, after all, he’d ended up on Warlock’s couch dressed in only a skimpy pair of women’s panties.

Matt opened his eyes carefully and looked down on himself. Well, boxers were better than panties, at least.

Except, he didn’t have navy blue sheets. His sheets, his old sheets, had been black. At the hospital they were white. And at the place Bowman had found for him he had green.

Where the hell had he gone last night?

Matt looked up, careful to keep the window behind him. His head was still pounding, but compared to the pain of getting a bullet in your knee it was nothing. The room he was in was plain, with an old tv on top of an oak dresser and an open door that showed a closet. There was a safe, too, a small one. And two more doors, one that led to the hallway and the other that had to be the bathroom.

As if responding to his thoughts, there was the sound of the toilet flushing and then the sink. Matt stared at the bathroom door, heart beating like a rabbit’s in his chest as it opened.

“John,” Matt breathed as the cop stepped out, wearing an old tee and sweatpants.

“You’re awake,” John seemed momentarily surprised, but he shook himself of it quickly. “How’s your head.”

Matt winced. “Um.”

John laughed. “Look besides you.”

Matt did and saw a glass of water and a couple aspirin. He took it gratefully. “Thanks.”

John shrugged, already turning away to walk to his dresser. He rifled through the drawers and came out with a t-shirt that he threw in Matt’s direction. “It’ll be big, but…” he shrugged again. “I’m gonna make some breakfast. You like scrambled eggs?”

“Who doesn’t?” Matt said on autopilot. Then he paused. “But you don’t have to-”

John waved a hand to cut him off. “I want to.” Without another word, he left the room, presumably towards the kitchen.

Matt gulped dryly for a moment, and then stood slowly. He threw on the shirt, grimacing as it covered his boxers. John wasn’t the largest of men, but Matt was on the lean side. Looking around, Matt spotted the jeans he’d worn the night before folded up on a desk chair. He slipped them on too.

A sudden memory of curling up in John’s lap hit him. Matt froze. What had he said?

Why had he woken up in John’s bed?

Stumbling to the kitchen, Matt leaned unsteadily against the doorway as he watched John flipping eggs in the pan. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” John asked. The toaster binged, two pieces of toast popping out. John set them on two plates before turning back to the eggs. “Runny or hard?”

“Runny,” Matt murmured, frowning. “And I’m sorry for whatever I said… or did last night.” He winced. “I was drunk. Which, uh, you probably guessed.”

John put half the eggs on a plate and handed it to him. Matt reached a hand out to take it, but John didn’t relinquish it until their eyes had met. “Matt,” he said seriously. “You didn’t say anything last night I hadn’t been too cowardly to say myself.”

Matt nearly dropped the plate as John let go. “I, what?”

John sighed. “Come on, table.”

“But,” Matt frowned. He followed John to the table and sat down across from him. “I’m pretty sure I… I must have said-”

“Christ, Mattie,” John rolled his eyes, reaching across the table to thumb over Matt’s cheek. “You said you liked me. That you wanted me.”

Matt felt his cheeks redden, but that didn’t stop him from leaning into John’s hand. “And you… want me too?”

“Yeah,” John said hoarsely. He withdrew his hand, clearing his throat. “I do.”

“Oh,” Matt felt himself starting to grin. “Oh.”

John returned the smile, his eyes warm, and Matt felt his heart skip a beat in his chest.


	3. Cops are Known For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there’s one thing cops are known for, it’s divorce. (Pre-FireSale)

John sure as hell knew the statistics. How could he not, when every single one of his partners needed to be consoled as their marriages fell apart?

But he and Holly were different, or so he’d thought. She took no crap from him, gave as good as she got, and he’d thought she understood that his first priority was to his job.

And sure, it had caused a couple bumps in the road, but the passion had been enough in those early years.

Then Lucy had been born. And Jack. And everything had changed.

Late nights turned into arguments of caring for the babies, the toddlers, and then before John knew it Holly was asking him to move out so that he would stop waking them all up when he came in with blood covering his shirt. Never mind that John had just saved someone’s life or money or all the other things that kept him stuck in the office.

And John had, because Holly was fierce and Jack had started crying and he couldn’t handle that.

But then he’s saved Holly’s workplace from Hans and he’d thought they could learn to be together again.

He’d been wrong.

Then it wasn’t him rubbing the back of cop after cop as they struggled with their separations, put all their effort into work to drown out the emptiness at home. Instead it was him, drunk off his ass and shaking with the knowledge that he’d missed more birthdays of his children then he’d been there for.

Maybe Zeus had helped. Maybe not.

All he wanted was to feel the fire of Holly’s lips against his again, the light of her eyes a burning star for him to see from any distance. That same fire that he saw in his daughter, who even now ignored him as the man who’d never been there for her.

If there’s one thing cops are known for beyond the badge and the gun and the handcuffs, it’s divorce.

John had known the statistics, but it didn’t prepare him for that day those papers had appeared on his desk, a familiar signature already neatly contained on one of the lines.

And years passed, with their ups and downs and hook ups and the bile in the back of his throat as he saw the ones who made it, the pairs that weathered that storm and were still together.

But as the years passed, John grew like he thought he’d already finished with and he looked back and he saw the marriage he’d had with Holly for what it was. Passion and love, yes, but too much friction and stubbornness and not enough willingness on either of their sides for compromise.

And who knew? Maybe John never would find the kind of love he needed. He was getting older and older, a truth only made more clear as he watched his daughter make out with a boy too enamored by her body to appreciate her personality, and maybe that road was closed for him.

Still, John promised himself and he climbed out of the car and headed towards the pair, if he ever found that kind of love, the one that he looked forward to coming home to and didn’t dread even when he was covered in blood and late… if he ever found that person he promised he wouldn’t let them go.


	4. Torture's Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt doesn’t mind John going jogging every other morning or so. After all, he comes back night and sweaty and he certainly doesn’t mind _that_. What he does mind is John trying to convince him that he should come along.

Matt didn’t mind John going jogging every other morning or so. After all, he came back panting and sweaty and Matt certainly didn’t mind  _that._  What he did mind was John trying to convince him that he should come along.

After all, torture’s other name was jogging.

“No,” Matt said, crossing his arms.

“You never get out of the apartment, Mattie,” John sighed. “Just a mile, nothing too strenuous.”

“You know the last time I ran, John?” Matt asked. “It was during the fire sale. So no, thanks, have fun. I’ll be here when you get back.”

“None of that,” John said. “Come on, change your clothes.”

“Make me,” Matt said, crossing his arms stubbornly.

John got that look over his face, the one that Matt knew him to wear when faced with terrorists and his ex-wife both. It was a look that meant Matt was going to go jogging.

He refused to give in until he was forced. John walked forward and Matt retreated. John continued walking and Matt continued stepping backwards, occasionally looking over his shoulder to make sure he wouldn’t hit anything.

It didn’t take long before Matt found himself backed into the bedroom. He felt his heartbeat speed up with excitement and arousal.

John raised an eyebrow and stepped into Matt’s space. Matt tilted his head up, expectant. John obliged with a soft kiss to his lips. Matt closed his eyes, running hands along John’s chest.

He felt fingers at the rim of his shirt and then it was being lifted up over his head. A rough hand rubbed over his nipple. Matt bucked up against John’s thigh.

John unbuttoned Matt’s jeans. Matt pushed them down and stepped, stumbling back onto the bed. He watched John watching him and smiled. He spread his legs, inviting.

John went to the dresser and began to rifle through it. Matt frowned. “Lube’s in the nightstand,” he said, reaching to gesture to the right place.

“I know,” John stated. He pulled out some athletic shorts and a tee. Matt immediately sat up and shook his head.

John sighed, setting the clothes on the side of the bed. He climbed on top of Matt, rubbing a hand on the bulge in Matt’s boxers. “Come jogging with me, and I’ll let you fuck me.”

“You’ll _let_  me?” Matt said dryly.

John sighed and kissed Matt’s stomach. “You can do whatever you want,” he tried again.

Matt frowned, deliberating. John grinned at him, knowing he’d won. Matt huffed and grabbed the clothes. He pulled them on. “Whatever I want,” he said, to make sure.

“Anything,” John agreed. “Come on. I was thinking we could run to the park and back.”

“That’s like… five miles!” Matt grumbled, but he followed anyway. Already he was thinking of all the things he could do with a sweaty John at his disposal.


	5. Matt Bitches About SOPA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt Farrell spends a day bitching about SOPA and is comforted by his confused boyfriend.

“Fucking shit-faced good-for-abso-fucking-nothing Congress,” Matt fumed.

**F4RR3LL:**  ARE YOU GETTING THIS SHIT?

 **WARLOCK:**  FUCKING SOPA, MAN.

 **F4RR3LL:**  AS IF POSSIBLY GETTING ARRESTED FOR MY  _JOB_  WASN’T ENOUGH, I MIGHT GET ARRESTED FOR POSTING A YOUTUBE VIDEO ON MY FACEBOOK WALL NOW?

 **WARLOCK:**  YOU DON’T HAVE A FACEBOOK, MAN.

 **F4RR3LL:**  SHUT UP, ASSHOLE, I’M MAKING A POINT.

 **WARLOCK:**  JUST SAYING, MAKE A POINT THAT MAKES SENSE.

_WARLOCK HAS LOGGED OFF._

“Bastard,” Matt said to the empty room. He glanced to his phone and then, blowing out an annoyed breath, picked it up and dialed.

The call was answered on the fifth ring. “This is Bowman.”

“Tell me you can do something about this shit,” Matt said without preamble.

“Farrell?” Bowman sounded surprised. “You having problems with the latest code?”

“No I’m not, my grandmother could do that trash,” Matt rolled his eyes. Sometimes he hated working for the FBI, even on a freelance basis. “SOPA, man. And PIPA. That shit.”

“Oh,” Bowman was silent for a moment.

“So?” Matt tapped his fingers on his shiny desk and waited. The apartment he shared with his boyfriend was too empty during the day, all quiet with only the sound of his music to keep him from feeling some irrational sense of loss. Irrational because he’d made John promise to always be home by six everyday and so far, four years and six months since the fire sale and three years and sixth months since Matt had taken the risk and kissed John that memorable Friday night, he’d only broken his word twice.

Once had been because of another terrorist organization breaking into a bank near his PD, so Matt had forgiven him for that one. The second was Lucy’s fault, her new kitten had gotten stuck in a tree and she, having been wearing a rather short dress, had decided that it would be better to call her dad to get it out than to bother doing it on her own. It had taken quite a lot of chocolate and coffee gifts before Matt had forgiven either of them for that one, the least John could have done would have been to call.

Bowman began talking, breaking Matt of his thoughts. “I’ve told you before, the FBI has no jurisdiction on the bills of Congress-”

“Bullshit,” Matt snapped. “You’re intelligence sector, it’s going to affect you, Bowman. Seriously, there’s got to be a backup plan somewhere.”

“The President is prepared to veto, he understands the implications of-” Bowman started.

“The President?” Matt huffed. “That’s your saving grace. Fuck, we’re doomed.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Farrell,” Bowman sounded peeved now. “You’ve been ignoring internet laws for years anyways.”

“Yeah, well just because I’m careful in my coding doesn’t mean I want to have to watch what I’m doing when I’m commenting on a news article and decide to post a link to a relevant picture from Google images,” Matt told him.

“Get back to work,” Bowman told him and hung up.

“You’re a bastard, too,” Matt said to his silent phone.

Two hours later, Matt had tweeted from several anonymous accounts, blocked out a bunch of websites that hadn’t actually been blocked (he was sure that Wikipedia wouldn’t mind too much) and signed all the petitions he could find, written to all of his representatives for both himself and John (because his boyfriend tended to get more respect that he did, the dick) and was contemplating contacting the press when the front door opened.

“Oh good, you’re home!” Matt said, stalking into the living room and watching as John took off his badge and gun, hanging them both on his hook by the door. “I need you to write that blond reporter you like so much, what’s her name,” Matt paused, “Sally Coldman?”

“Sam Coleman?” John gave him one of his trademark amused looks. “Why am I writing her?”

“Calling, actually, calling would be faster,” Matt decided.

“Okay,” John agreed mildly, walking up into Matt’s space and giving him a chaste kiss. “What have you done?”

Matt huffed, but he let John pull him in closer, relaxing against the man’s too-strong-to-be-real chest. “I haven’t done anything,” which might be a lie if Wikipedia had anything to say about it, “it’s SOPA.”

“SOPA?” John’s eyebrows furrowed. “The hell is that?”

“Anti-piracy act,” Matt said. “Congress is voting on Tuesday.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” John stepped back out of his space and went to the kitchen, probably to prepare dinner. God knows Matt couldn’t cook to save his life.

“No it’s not a good thing,” Matt followed him. “It’s a very bad thing. Very bad.”

“Oh,” John hummed. “And why is it bad?”

“Because it limits the freedom of speech!” Matt leaned against the counter to watch John as he deftly began to gather ingredients to make (by the pepper flakes and beef) curry for them. “No more watching youtube videos, tweeting or tumbling, reading fanfiction, making graphics, listening to Pandora-”

“Fanfiction?” John turned to stare at Matt, his hands still working at dicing up the meat.

Matt felt his face turn red and his ducked his head. “Um, yeah, not that I, um, but it’s entertainment for some, uh, fans of, well, that is to say-”

“I get it,” John snorted. “Still trying to see why I care. I don’t use the internet, Mattie.”

Matt bristled at the nickname, but he’d learned years ago it was either that or ‘kid’ and he much preferred not being reminded that John was at least twenty years his senior. “It’d matter to Lucy. To Jack.” Matt took in a breath. “To me.”

John set down his knife and approached Matt. He leaned down and rested their foreheads together. “To you?”

“Yeah,” Matt murmured. He ran a hand down John’s bare arm.

John stared at him for a moment, and then he closed the rest of the way and took Matt’s mouth in a bruising kiss. Matt moaned into it, he was always too needy for John’s touch, and his hands came to grip the other man’s shirt.

John’s tongue came in to take control and Matt let him, arching up against the counter as John’s calloused palm came to scrape at the back of his neck. John pulled back after a minute, an hour, forever, and he bit softly against Matt’s bottom lip before retreating.

Matt opened his eyes, face flushed, and his tongue came out to lick at the small bite indents. “Welcome home,” he said softly.

“A little late on that,” John chuckled, his hand squeezing at Matt’s neck. “I’ll see if Sam’s available, but you’re gonna write my statement for me. I don’t know shit about computers.”

Matt brightened. “No problem, I’ll do that! Right now, in fact. Thank you, thank you,” he went as if to pull out of John’s arms.

Fingers tightened as John prevented him. “Unuh,” he shoot his head. “It’s too late, we’ll do it tomorrow.”

It’s only six, Matt thought, but John was coming in for another kiss and Matt let all thoughts of SOPA retreat to the back of his mind.


	6. And Then They Kissed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Coleman wasn’t quite sure what was happening, only that this pretty boy was berating John McClane like he hadn’t just saved sixteen hostages single-handedly, and John wasn’t punching him in the face.

Sam gaped. She knew her mouth was wide open, but she could hardly help it. She’d been a reporter for who know how many years, but she’d never seen anything like what was now playing out in front of her.

“Dinner, you said!” the pretty boy fumed, arms flailing in front of the once-again-hero John McClane sitting as he was on the back of the ambulance while his arm was being treated. “Do you have any idea what time it is? It’s nine. Do you normally eat dinner at nine, because, for the record, I don’t.”

“Kid…” John began, but the other cut him off. Again.

“There’s such as thing as information sharing. I know you’re not high tech,” the boy put a hand on his hip now, shaking his head. “I didn’t spend days of my life setting you up with a gmail account for you to just ignore the internet.”

“You did it in half an hour,” John said, more like a plea than any anger.

“I checked my phone, my email, my facebook!” the boy continued as if John hadn’t said anything. “You couldn’t bother to even let me know you were off shooting at some high-headed motherfuckers? I had to find out because of the news, John, the damn news!”

“Mattie,” John winced. “I didn’t really have time.”

“No, of course not, you’re a fucker McClane, you never have time,” the kid, Mattie?, huffed.

Sam thought he was being woefully unfair and was about to march over and say so, or at least ask why John wasn’t punching him.

Then John reached forward and touched the boy’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

Sam could count on one hand the number of times she’d heard John apologize.

The kid deflated like a balloon. “One day the bastards you beat up aren’t going to die, John,” he said. “I…” the rest of his words were too soft for Sam to hear, but she got the gist by the way his shoulder’s were slumped.

After all, she understood anger-induced worry.

The medic, who had not even reacted during the entire conversation, professed John free to go home and the pretty boy walked away towards what Sam assumed was his car. John hoped up and passed her as he left, nodding shortly.

Sam knew she was among the privileged few that could ask John about his personal life and not get shot. In fact, she also knew she was the only reporter with the privilege at all, which had certainly boosted her career. She made an effort to not push the boundary too far, but she couldn’t help herself this time. “Is he…”

“Sometimes I think my daughter corrupts him,” he said, simple and a bit fond as he stared after the retreating figure.

“He’s dating Lucy?” Sam blinked.

“No,” John said shortly.

“Well,” Sam frowned. “He seems… nice.” They both knew what she really meant.

“Story of my life,” John sighed, but there was something in his eyes that Sam hadn’t seen in all those interviews that she’d had with this man. He waved her away and walked back to where his companion was waiting by the car, his expression peeved.

There was something about them, some bond that Sam thought was the reason for the peace that seemed to hang over even the badassness of John McClane. She struggled a minute for a name.

And then they kissed.

Sam gaped. She knew her mouth had fallen wide open, but she couldn’t help it.

Oh.


End file.
